The flakes are a little thinner where I look,
For I can see a circle of grey shore,
And greyer water, motionless beyond.
But the other shore is gone, and right and left
Earth and sky desert me. Still I stand
And look at the dark circle that is there—
As if I were a man blinded with whiteness,
And one grey spot remained. The flakes descend,
Softly, without a sound that I can tell—
When out of the further white a gull appears,
Crosses the hollow place, and goes again…
There was no flap of wing; no feather fell.
But now I hear him crying, far away,
And think he may be wanting to return…
The flakes descend… And shall I see the bird?
Not one path is open through the snow.

This poem is in the public domain.